


Deima

by wrack



Category: Marathon (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Ambient Durandal Noises, Ficlet, Gen, Minor Original Character(s), Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22070851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrack/pseuds/wrack
Summary: The security officer doesn't feel like he's lost anything.Most of the time.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6
Collections: Seven Days of Marathon 2019





	Deima

**Author's Note:**

> Just sneaking this little ficlet in before the Seven Days of Marathon amnesty period ends! I've tagged it as a dæmon AU, but... it's more of a dæmonless AU. Oh, Battleroids. /weeps
> 
> The idea of the security officer's dæmon having been a wolverine named Deima belongs to Hokuto (as does Bernhard Strauss having a shrike-dæmon, though he didn't make it into this particular fic).

The shock of seeing another human face on Lij-3 was what drove him to it. If he'd had another second or two to think ( _we'd all have heard the gears grinding from here to Vyl Prime_ , Durandal said in his mind), he might have gone for one of the sensible options instead; there were plenty of other surface access corridors for him to take, and even failing those, he could have ducked his head and sped past fast enough that his disappearing shadow would be all she'd ever see. Backtracking all the way to the hangar bay would have been a better choice than what he did next, which was to stop dead in his tracks and blurt out a startled “Hey!”

Durandal was hissing and crackling away at the other end of his earpiece. Through the alphabet soup of underground signal distortion, he caught a _what_ and two _yous_ and at least one startlingly clear _idiot_. He ignored them. All his focus was reserved for the woman, who'd pivoted almost before he'd spoken and was now staring him down with a hand on her hip holster. He ought to have felt at least a flicker of alarm at that – every one of his not-quite-dormant security officer's instincts told him she'd be willing to use it with minimal provocation – but he couldn't. Her other hand was clenched into a fist, held out from her body at chest height. Perched on that fist, tiny talons gripping her leather-clad thumb tight, was a small, grey-backed bird of prey.

This was humanity. Living among aliens and AI for so long had allowed him to forget.

“What do you want?” she demanded. The little bird on her fist mirrored the confrontational posture she'd settled into; hackles up, eyes glaring, hooked beak thrust forward. It bobbed its head at him, a quick assessment of distance. He should have bitten his tongue bloody before letting those words slip out. No, worse than that: he should have listened to Durandal. Another second and they'd know. They always did.

_She's crouched at my feet, fur bristling. There's a sour taste in my throat; anger or fear, I can't tell. I don't growl, but she does._

Just a flash. As it faded, the bird flattened its feathers and drew itself up at the same time. The woman's eyes widened. Her hand slipped away from the holster, fingers clutching thin air, and she took a quick step back. “What?” she said again, but it wasn't a hostile demand this time. It sounded almost plaintive, like a child interrogating the universe. “What the hell – what's wrong with you? Where - I don't -”

His own might have been concealed, small enough to hide out in his armour somewhere – but no. They always knew.

“... get... shuttle... you... !” Durandal's tinny voice spat. Some idle, distant part of him wondered how many creative insults he was missing out on. He obeyed, keeping the woman in sight as though she were an ambush predator who might use his retreating back as an opportunity to spring. No real danger of that; she wasn't trying to follow him, hadn't even shouted for the crewmates he knew had to be around here somewhere. The connection to his helmet cut out for a second. As he stepped around the corner, he saw the woman and her bird unfreeze. Their shoulders relaxed in a single perfect mirror-movement. 

The line died again. He imagined Durandal's voice slicing the static in half. Ghosts fizzed and burbled inside his head. When he bothered thinking about it at all – which wasn't often – he'd thought it must be like having an AI riding along with you every moment of every day. Not just ordering you around or judging your choices from the outside, but getting their sticky fingers all over the inside part as well. It had sounded like a whole new level of hell. Now, he wondered. 

The line was clear enough at this point in the tunnel that when Durandal came back on just long enough to growl “- another port!”, he heard more than thwarted fury at having been turned back before they even got near the surface. Durandal was afraid, and that was enough to make a prickle of sweat bloom near the top of his spine. Afraid for him? Or of something else?

He broke into a jog. Nobody followed.


End file.
